To Bleed or Not to Bleed: A Man and His Period

A transgender man opens up about getting—and then losing—his period.

By
Basil Soper

Jul 7, 2017

Design by Perri Tomkiewicz

Welcome to BAZAAR.com's first ever Period Month, where for an entire four weeks we'll be publishing stories devoted to your period. Our aim is to delve into what really happens during a woman's cycle, teaching you how you can harness your hormones as a path to success, power and global change.

When I was six years old and walking to baseball practice with my father one day, I told him I was confused about why the other boys on the team made fun of me. They emotionally and physically pushed me around; they quizzed me and only me on professional players' stats, and in my position as catcher, runners would ram into me when there was no reason to slide home. My father told me I was a girl trying to play in a space that is really for boys. They didn’t want me there.

I told him that no, actually, I was a boy too. He retorted, “The last time I checked, you didn't have a dick between your legs.” As I absorbed his vicious comment, I got angry and dizzy. But I still didn't believe I was a girl. My lack of a penis must have been some kind of mistake. At the very least, I was half boy. My father ended the discussion by telling me my body would change. I’d get a period one day and understand that I was a girl.

When I was 13 years old, I went to baseball tryouts in the blinding springtime sunshine of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, like I had for eight years before. As I sat down, I was met with stronger side-eye than usual from the boys in the dugout. I watched the coach force my mother to take me off the field and walk me over to the softball field. I looked at my mother the way my dog looks at me when I leave her before a big trip. I was baffled and couldn’t process what was happening. I remember shaking my head from side to side, breaking out in a cold sweat, and digging my heels into the orange clay as she pushed me onto a field filled with French braids and fruity bubble gum. For me, I could avoid the bathroom at school, I could suck it up when my teachers asked the boys and girls to get in different lines, and I could wear girl’s pants when my mom forced me (as long as I could skateboard in them). But this moment on the baseball field affirmed me and my gender more than anything else. I realized I would no longer have a say in how people viewed me or my body for the rest of my life.

Part of me believed I would never get a period. When it came in the school cafeteria when I was 16, I refused to tell my father about it. He was the person who forced gender roles the hardest on the entire family, to the point where the “girls” weren’t allowed to cut our hair shorter than our shoulders. My mother worked late nights, so instead of getting help from anyone, I used a sock in place of a pad or tampon for a few days.

But much to my surprise, I loved my period. I’m a naturally sensitive and emotional guy, and my menstrual cycle pushed me to slow down and contemplate my array of feelings. It also forced me to feel my body. As a trans person closeted until 24, I had a very distant relationship with my body. Getting my period forced me to deal with it—and showed me the body type I was born with is a mind-blowing thing. My body had the capability to produce a human life and it can clean itself out! Alas, I haven’t had a period in five years because I am on testosterone. Technically, I could take less testosterone, get a period and still look as masculine as I do. But ultimately, I chose not to have one. My gender dysphoria, which is eased through testosterone and surgery, outweighs my sentimentality toward my period.

From left: The author today; as a child (pictured in stripes); and with his friend Emily

Courtesy Basil Soper

But just because I choose not to menstruate doesn’t mean I feel 100 percent secure in my body. There’s a piece of me that remains joined to the idea of having a period while simultaneously uneasy about it. When I was with my ex, I synced up to her period—even though I didn’t get one. I would be at work and suddenly get hit with severe menstrual cramps. I’d text her and ask, “Did you just start bleeding?” and she’d respond, “Yes! Do you have my cramps again?” While the cramps were inconvenient, I enjoyed being linked to someone in that way. It felt special and magnetic. As a man who has had a period in the past, I also like knowing instinctively how to care for partners who get their periods. I know exactly what muscles to rub, when to run a bath, and how to be a bit gentler than usual.

But when I had sex with my ex, a woman who only dated straight cis men before me, I would have moments of genital dysphoria and sometimes have to stop having sex because I didn’t feel male enough. Additionally, because I’m a man, I have never really felt like I could wholly bond with most women. But I also felt like I could never relate to cisgender (non-trans) men because of my body type. That’s a lonely existence, and uniting with others who also had a monthly period felt soothing. It’s something I really miss now.

"There’s a piece of me that remains joined to the idea of having a period while simultaneously uneasy about it."

Recently, to connect with my best friend Emily’s new boyfriend, I made a stupid joke about her getting her period because she was emotional. As soon as we were alone, I apologized to her. I felt embarrassed for acting out in a sexist way toward one of my closest friends, a girl I’ve known since high school. I wanted her partner to like me because I love her like a sister, but I used her body as the butt of a joke in that process. A body that used to be a lot like mine. A body type that is exploited, degraded, and viewed as less than in many cultures, including our own. The real joke here was that he probably wanted my affirmation as much as I wanted his.

My back-and-forth relationship with my period and anatomy, and the social constructs surrounding them, has been endless. Recently, I booked a date for December to undergo bottom surgery. I hope getting surgery will help me in my moments of anxiety. I still have conflicting feelings about it, but I’ve realized my need to stay on this level of testosterone and have surgery trumps my desire to keep some of the body parts I currently possess. Yes, I am grieving the future loss of parts of myself that I was born with. I’ve had them my whole life and I feel attached to them. I also fear never being able to have children, though I don’t think I could ever emotionally handle being off testosterone long enough to carry a child, or grip the dysphoria and transphobia accompanied with being a pregnant trans man. I think being on hormone replacement therapy and still having ovaries isn’t good for my body or emotional wellbeing, either. I am very relieved to start living in a body that feels right for me.

In the end, all I can do now is be grateful for being given the ability to experience things many men have not. It’s given me a special perspective and a level of self-awareness that isn’t offered to most. I do believe, too, that my body will still be magical even after I get surgery. I look forward to feeling a sense of freedom and adapting to my new body. I am very excited about the prospect of post-surgery sex! If I can be really honest though, I look most forward to redeeming that six-year-old on the way to baseball practice.

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